


Child of O'Leary

by JRMax



Category: Wizard101
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Marleybone, NOT the Savior of the Spiral, New Student at Ravenwood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-11-16 12:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18094235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JRMax/pseuds/JRMax
Summary: Scarlet O'Leary is a hybrid, a mixture of the Marleybonian anthropomorphic cat and a human wizard. Rare indeed, the Family -- better known as the infamous O'Leary gang -- tends to not think very highly of her, believing her "simple of mind" and refusing her a proper education. To them, she is but a disposable pawn in a much larger game.However, on a pick-pocket attempt gone wrong, she meets Arthur Wethersfield, who sees something in her no-one else does: raw and untapped potential.





	1. Buzzing

Scarlet O’Leary senses something different about the Marleybonian in the crimson coat. He  _buzzes_.

Dogs don’t buzz. Not really. Some of them do, she thinks, if she listens hard enough, but it’s all usually quiet. Repressed. Locked behind some door or other, either deliberately or, very rarely,  _accidentally_. She thinks Dogs don’t like the buzzing, or maybe they don’t  _know_ they have the buzz, but regardless, it’s quiet. Quiet enough it might as well be Not There At All.  

It’s not the same with Crimson Coat though. No, he buzzes, not loudly, not really, but  _audibly_. She doesn’t have to strain her ears to catch the harmony surrounding him. And she sees it, too, which has never happened before. She has to blink to make sure, but --  _yes, there._

Golden particles, vibrating and disrupting the air like dust. They linger in his wake and dance around his tall canine body. She sees them just-barely, refracting the light of streetlamps.

Scarlet doesn’t understand the buzzing. She doesn’t understand why she Sees Stuff her brothers and sisters and cousins can’t. Doesn’t understand why she hears stuff they can’t, either. She’s only a hybrid, after all, and she knows the Family has much better senses than her (which is why they don't like her). But no,  _she’s_ the one who notices Things, not  _them_. Don’t make any sense, that.

She does know one thing, though: gold means riches.

And she knows riches can save her a beating.

So she slinks through the shadows, practiced and deliberate, soundless and deadly, because that’s another thing she knows. She _knows_ how to be an O’Leary.  

She’s good at it, one of the best, which is why Pops sends her out alone at all despite being only fifteen (a voice in the back of her head tells her he also wants her dead, but she ignores that voice).

She can pick-pocket most Dogs without them ever knowing. She’s confident. She’s quiet. She follows the golden particles like a nose to freshly-baked cookies.

She reaches out, her hand a viper.   
  
 _Except it gets caught in a trap._

She flinches and gasps because the strong hand around her wrist  _should not be there why is it there?_

Crimson Coat peers down at her, annoyed and amused. “I see the O’Leary gang still patrols these streets.”

His voice is of feigned politeness, but not at her. Toward... _something_. The institution, maybe, for failing so miserably at keeping a handle on the city’s crime. Scarlet’s kind of amused, but she can’t be, so she reverts quickly to anger. She hisses, thrashes, tries to break free, but she’s skinny and weak and  _he’s **very** strong, why is he strong?_

Something changes in his eyes, lucid and blue. Recognition? Pity?

She wonders...is she buzzing, too?

“How old are you, my dear?” Politeness, not so feigned. Curious moreso.

Scarlet swallows and tries to break free, but his grip hasn’t lightened. So she lies, quickly, sarcastically: “ _72_.”

A wry grin, not pleased at all. “I see.”

He tugs her arm, and she has no choice but to follow even as she shreds the sleeve of that stupid crimson coat with claws and teeth. If there's blood, she can't tell. Doesn't care, either.

He doesn’t budge. Not once. 

Neither does she.


	2. Potential

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I heard you right. You want to  _what_?”

Arthur Wethersfield expects the incredulity, though it does not stop him from wanting to dramatically roll his eyes. (He doesn’t, of course. He is a gentleman after all.)

The girl has stopped fighting him now, but he keeps a firm grip on her wrist all the same. Her eyes, wide and dark, bore into him. She is terrified, he knows. She does not want to leave home. She does not want to leave the Family.

“I said,” Arthur continues with a level of politeness that can only be fabricated, “that I wish to take her with me to Ravenwood.”

“And why, pray-tell, would you want an _O’Leary_  staining the good name of Ravenwood?”

He all but spits the name out, saliva flying out of his increasingly useless muzzle onto the desk. Arthur adjusts his monocle to hide his twitching eye, but the girl, young and undisciplined as she is, has no qualms hissing and spitting back. She tries to lunge, sharp claws outstretched, but Arthur tugs her back before she can even lean over the desk. The officer watches her, weary now, and for good reason.

The energy that surrounds her crackles, audibly and visibly, like a wildfire ready to devour the world, or a storm set on drowning the land, thunderous and terrifying. The officer cannot sense it, not like Arthur can, but he doesn’t need to. The enraged look in her feline eyes is enough of a tell that this child is, or very well can be, a  _weapon_.

It’s why she can’t stay. Put in the Cage for life, and it wastes her potential. Return her to the Family, something  _worse_.

“Ravenwood has taken in many delinquents,” Arthr says cooly, and he tugs the girl more tightly to his side as though to make some unspoken point. “And each of them have turned into upstanding citizens of the Spiral.” It’s a white lie, at best, but the turnover rate  _is_ good.

“But she --”

“Is an O’Leary, yes, I think we’ve established this,” Arthur returns drily. The girl eases slightly beside him, her aura not as tumultuous as it was but moments before. “She also has the potential to become a very powerful wizard. Power the O’Learys would love to exploit, I should think.”

“Bah. Those gangsters cast spells with as much skill as a newborn pup. They can’t train this half-breed to be anything more than a common brute like the rest of them.”

And  _there_  it is, that pompous disregard of the Family that has led to their growth and subsequent survival over their decades of crime. The laziness that led to the gang families taking over at all. Arthur had an argument about this once with his mother. ‘ _I_ _f the O’Learys are just common brutes, why haven’t we dealt with them by now?_ ’ he’d asked. His mother never did have an answer for him.

It always annoyed him, just as it annoys him now, staring at the face of an officer who can so clearly see the threat the girl can pose but can think of no other solution than ‘throw her in the Cage, I'm sure she won't break out, oh no’.

“Teachers can be bought,” Arthur replies, his patience on thin ice now, not that his voice betrays that. He is a  _gentleman._  “And more than that, one born with such a natural connection to magic does not need to learn to be dangerous. Get her mad enough and something is bound to explode.”

An exaggeration, really. Things only explode if one is a born pyromancer, and he’s not so sure that’s what the girl is. But things exploding tend to get people moving and thinking  _quickly_.

This is no exception. The officer casts a worried glance in the girl's direction (she doesn’t see it, her eyes glued to Arthur instead) and opens a cabinet drawer to pull out a few papers.

“I’ll uh...go ahead and release her into your custody, Mr. Whethersfield,” he says.

“Thank you, good sir.”

 

* * *

 

As Arthur signs the necessary paperwork, he learns (after much gentle prodding and insisting he means no harm) that the girl’s name is Scarlet, and that she’s fifteen years old.

That last part in particular concerns him. She’s scrawny, small,  _malnourished_. Her eyes are sunken and her uniquely dappled skin -- milk-chocolate splashed with white (vitiligo the humans call it) -- is pulled tightly against her bones. She says she’s fifteen and he has no reason to doubt her word (her curiosity is drowning out her caution with him, thank Bartleby), but she looks so much  _younger._

He’s willing to bet she’s never known a proper meal in her life. From what he remembers the O’Learys’ treatment of half-breeds is...harsh.

It strikes him with pity, and it takes a moment for him to remember she’s still very much a threat. She’s wild, and she was taught her entire life not to trust Canines.

She  _will_ try to run away from him, once they leave Scotland Yard. And she  _will_ fight him when he pulls her with him anyway. Her curiosity will not stop this.

Arthur hands the papers to the officer, then, in a show of good faith, bows to the girl properly and extends an arm for her to take. “Shall we go then, my lady?”

The officer scoffs, but they both ignore him. He’s not important now.

Scarlet doesn’t take the arm immediately. She quirks her head to the side, her ears, tall and delightfully curled, flicker with wonder.

“You buzz,” she says, like that’s supposed to mean something to him.

It doesn’t, but he thinks he knows what she means. “So do you.”

A beat of silence, then finally she lays a bony hand on his arm, and he escorts her out of the station.


	3. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scarlet gets a haircut. It goes about as well as you can expect.

Scarlet does fight him once they leave Scotland Yard. She manages to pull away from him the moment they’re out on the main street, and she’s running,  _running_ , but it hardly matters because he’s much faster than a man in those kinds of shoes should be. He grabs her again, all stiff with formality, and starts to escort her again, this time holding her hand, strong and firm.  
  
  
She tries again when they approach the Abbey. She uses her other hand to scratch at the arm holding her, shredding his crimson coat even more than it already was and cutting past his white sleeve. She draws blood this time, she can smell it, but he doesn’t even lighten his grip, like he can’t feel pain. But that can’t be it. He’s ignoring her utterly, and it drives her  _mad_ that she can’t hurt him in any way.    
  
  
She even tries biting. He doesn’t even flinch.  
  
  
There’s a brief reprieve when they enter the Abbey and approach a door that leads to nowhere -- or somewhere very beyond. Scarlet’s never been to the Abbey, and thus has never seen the door. She wonders what it is, and doesn’t believe that it’s the Spiral Door at all.  
  
  
“Is not some vortex or nothin’?”  
  
  
“It is when you open it.”

 

  
“Why’s it inside, in the Abbey? Innit better outside church?”  
  


  
Arthur actually laughs, and it’s a pleasant sound, Scarlet thinks, before she remembers not to care. “You know, I’ve always wondered about that myself.”  
  
  
A third attempt to escape is made beyond the Door. It’s disorienting, travelling through it the first time, but nothing worse than when she gets clobbered in the head, so she makes a final run for it, stumbling, falling, but quickly. She thinks she hears Arthur calling to her, but she ignores him because she's not  _sure_ she’s actually hearing him.  
  
  
When she steps out to what’s presumably outside, she gasps. It’s too bright, _too bright, too bright._  She skids to a halt and squeezes her eyes shut, covers them with her hands and crouches low to the ground. It smells too, but not badly. Not like sewer and fish and meat, like Marleybone, but like flowers and green. It’s very warm,  _too warm_ , and it's uncomfortable to her even though she’s only got a little bit of fur covering her. How do full-coats feel? She doesn’t know but she’s glad she’s not one.  
  
  
None of that’s the worst part though. No, the worst part is that it’s loud. Very loud.  _Buzzing_. Not a bee in her ear buzzing, but dozens of beehives surrounding her, with different wingbeats and hums and queens. She moves her hands to her ears, and flinches when a presence comes from behind, but she’s in pain now and  _she can’t fight, can’t fight, she’s in trouble, she_  --  
  
  
“Breathe.” No. Not Trouble.  _Arthur_. “I know it’s overwhelming, my dear, but I can help you. Here, listen to my voice, focus on my essence.” A pause. “What was the word you used...Buzz, wasn’t it? Focus on my buzzing.”  
  
  
Scarlet does. She listens to him, focuses on him, and is surprised when it helps. Soon everything else becomes background, unimportant, but he’s there more clearly than ever, an outline behind closed eyes, a warmth in her chest, a soft tune in her ears. She relaxes slowly, and registers the gentle weight on her back as Arthur rests his hand on her.  
  
  
He helps her up slowly and, feeling better now, she opens her eyes.  
  
  
Bright, but not  _too_ bright. Colorful. Reds and blues and greens and browns and purples and yellows. The sky is obscured by massive branches and leaves. Sunlight dapples a deliberately patterned cobblestone road. The buildings are nothing like Marleybone, stone and painted with little murals as they are. One has ivy climbing it’s walls, vibrant and alive, and a very pretty cherry blossom tree sits at its side, a pleasant face gently smiling on its trunk. (It’s very disturbing to think about trees with faces, so she decides not to think about it at all. She doesn’t like it when her head hurts.)  
  
  
There’s another tree and another building on the other side, rainy and stormy like Marleybone sometimes gets. The ground looks soggy, and the tree seems very sad, but trees can’t be sad, can they? (No, don’t think about it. Too confusing.) The building has purple and yellow, a depiction of a storm, raging and powerful. She wonders if there are other trees, other buildings.  
  
  
Arthur’s no longer holding her, so Scarlet supposes she can run, but she’s tired now. Queasy. Arthur’s arm wraps around her shoulders in a friendly sort of way, and when she looks up at him he’s smiling.  
  
  
“Scarlet O’Leary, welcome to Ravenwood.”

 

* * *

 

  
He doesn’t induct her immediately like Scarlet expects, like he inferred back at Scotland Yard, but cleans her up first. He takes her to his apartment (she steals from apartments sometimes, but they’re more difficult than small houses. More people, more locks) and lets her bathe. That’s new, because the water comes from a higher faucet attached to the wall, not a bucket, and she finds if she turns one of the dials too far it gets either really hot or really cold, and Arthur has to show her how to get the right temperature. He calls it a “shower”. She’s not sure she likes it.

  
But she’s clean now, cleaner than ever, and the soap smells like lavender and now she does, too.  _That_ part she likes.

  
When she steps out, there are new clothes waiting for her. A long orange tunic that definitely won’t fit her and a simple black belt, and the socks look too big, too. His clothes. Arthur’s. But they don’t have rips and stains and they don’t smell like sewer, so she puts them on anyways.

  
Arthur waits for her in the living room, which is nice but very sparsely decorated. Nothing like the fancy homes she and the Family sometimes hit. (Maybe he's poor, and just pretends to be rich. Some Dogs do that.) He stands beside a tall chair with scissors in his hands, and all the warning bells in Scarlet’s head start to ring because  _sharp, danger, run or fight._  
  


But a voice reminds her that Arthur hasn’t hurt her yet even though she’s hurt him. It’s different, and he buzzes, so maybe he’s not bad.  _But he’s a Dog. Dogs don’t like me.  
_  
  
He notices her discomfort and smiles very softly, then holds up a hairbrush in his other hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you,” he says calmly. “Your hair is rather matted though. I would like to clean it up a bit, if you’ll let me.”  
  
  
She doesn’t want to, not really, but her ears and scalp itch, and she doesn’t remember the last time it was brushed. She probably as fleas, or lice, or both. Reluctantly she nods, and Arthur pats the seat next to him. She sits.  
  
  
He starts cutting first toward the bottom, cleaving through the worst of the knotting and leaving them in wet, dark piles on the floor beneath her, and she holds her head very, very still.  When he reaches her neck she stiffens. She hates it, hates the feeling of something so close to her throat, and thinking about the scissors themselves nearly makes her panic, but he’s very, very gentle always. He even stops when he notices how tense he is, a hand rubbing her upper back until she relaxes. He proceeds.   
  
  
Then he accidentally knicks her ear, and the world  _spirals_.  
  
  
Scarlet lashes out instinctively, defensively --  _he hurt me he hurt me he hurt me_  -- and she catches him on the chest. Her claws cut deep enough that she actually hears a hiss of pain escape his mouth. There’s a long moment where nothing happens.  
  
  
 _No no no_ , she realizes belatedly, her dark skin paling considerably.  _No no no, I hurt a Dog. Dogs don’t like being hurt, he’s going to_ **hit me** and  **send me to the Cage**  and  **I don’t want to go to the cage no no no**  --  
  
  
She scrambles out of the chair and stumbles back, cowering and covering her face and head with arms, protecting herself from the inevitable blow, the blow of a baton, or a fist, or --  
  
  
Or nothing.  
  
  
There’s never a blow, but maybe that just means he’s waiting. Waiting for her to let her guard down. Some Dogs are like that.  
  
  
She can’t run. Not now. He’d grab her and throw her down, or --

  
“Oh Scarlet…” Arthur doesn’t sound mad, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t. But...he does sound  _sad_. And he feels sad, too, his energy pulsing in her ears dull and melancholy, like some of those songs she sometimes hears the big bands play. But no, it’s a trick.  
  
  
...Right?  
  
  
But he never moves toward her. Cautiously, she peers out from under her arms, trembling. No, he doesn’t look mad at all.  
  
  
He never moves toward her, not once, but the scissors are on the counter, not in his hands, which are lifted up and empty. “Listen to me, dear. I’m not a copper, I’m not a Family member. I will never,  _ever_ hurt you. Not when you do something wrong, not when you might hurt me, not  _ever_. I’m here to help you. That’s all.”  
  
  
Scarlet doesn’t believe him. All Dogs Are Bad. That’s what Pops said, that’s what her Dad said, that’s what they all said. He’ll hurt her someday, if she stays.  
  
  
But she has nowhere to go now. No going back home. Not until later, maybe, if she learns how to work that dumb Door.  
  
  
But, she decides he won’t hurt her now at least.  
  


She calms down very slowly. Her fists unclench as she lowers them, and she shakily gets back into a standing position. Blood drips into her hair and onto her face, and she wipes it away feebly with her hand. It’s here that Arthur starts to move, very slowly, his hands always where she can see them. He grabs a towel off the chair, and wipes away the blood before pressing it to her ear.  
  
“I’m sorry I cut your ear,” Arthur says as he guides her back to the chair. “I didn’t mean to.”  
  


_That_ she decides she believes.

  
But she doesn’t apologize for hurting him right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!! I had to think about how I wanted to proceed. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the bit of angst here. Don't point scissors at Scarlet


End file.
